The Other Side of the Coin
by Solanum Dulcamara
Summary: There is an old saying, They are two sides of the same coin. What if everyone's favorite couples weren't as picture perfect as we'd all like to believe. Yaoi. 3x4 and 1x2. Angst.
1. Take a Bow

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing isn't mine blah, blah, blah.

Warnings: yaoi, language, dysfunctional relationships, angst and drama

Award: Third Place Angst in the Vault's Spring Songfic Challenge

Fandom: Gundam Wing

Pairings: 3x4 (part 1), 1x2 (part 2)

Acknowledgments: Many thanks to Harmonie Des Anges for being my lovely support and even lovelier beta-reader!

A/N: Lots of authors have "perfect couple" fixations. I, as an angst-whore, couldn't resist the opportunity to write something that destroys the whole perfect couple image. The title was taken from the old saying "They are two sides of the same coin." Do not look for a happy/sappy ending. You won't find one. What you will find is closure/resolution. Both parts were inspired by Madonna songs of the same titles. Lyrics will follow each part, as per regulations, and will be italicized. 

The Other Side of the Coin  
Part 1: Take a Bow  
By Solanum Dulcamara

Trowa artfully ducked as another plate sailed across the room, shattering on the wall just behind where the Latin boy's face had previously been. Lamenting cries echoed through the short hall as the shards of china fell to the small dinnerware graveyard that was forming on the rug around Trowa's feet. He barely managed to dodge to the right as a teacup met the same fate against the wall. The heavy sobs haunted every room of the condo with their sorrow. Trowa simply stood, ramrod straight, not at all encumbered by the clinking piles of glass that continued to grow. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head lowered, usually the body language of submission or remorse. His lover knew better.

On that downcast face, two beautiful emerald eyes could freeze the very carpet they stared at. Distant, detached, cold, they never returned the love shown in the bright blue ones. No matter what smile was painted on the perfect lips or frown wrinkled the often impassive brow, his eyes always remained devoid of any emotion. They never gave any indication of feeling, and Quatre knew that they didn't lie.

When the screaming stopped, the barrage of dishes had ceased, and the blond man had collapsed to a shuddering mass crouched on the floor, the green eyes scanned the room. Trowa approached his broken lover like a trite scene out of a cheesy soap opera, complete with patronizingly open arms. "Quatre..." The name came out a soothing plea, but the two syllables sent a chill down the Arab's spine.

The taller boy bent, extending a hand to the shaking boy on the floor, "Quatre... come here."

Quatre promptly smacked the offending hand and scrambled to his feet as far from Trowa as he could get. The blond leaned against the wall on the far end of the kitchen for support. His breath hitched and his body trembled. The tear streaked face twisted into a scowl of disdain. His words slipped through clenched teeth as a hiss, "Don't touch me!"

"But Quatre I..."

"You what? Love me? Ha! That's bullshit and you know it."

The blond sank into a chair at the nearby table. The tired lines of his face formed an expression far too old for the youthful former pilot. Weary hands cradled his head in a futile attempt to hide the unrelenting tears. Trowa betrayed no emotion.

He stood by the kitchen door... just watching. He just stood, and watched, and never said anything, and never felt anything, and that irritating fact wormed its way under Quatre's skin. Crawling all over him in the stale tension of the room, until the volatile blond wanted to scream, just to restore some semblance of life to the dying apartment... the dead relationship.

Trowa blinked. He couldn't have heard right... was Quatre laughing?

A quick inspection of his Arab companion proved that he was, in fact, laughing. But not the usual melodious giggle. A harsh and bitter chuckle grated its way from the empty chest.

With a final sigh, the petit man looked up with red eyes. "Do you feel anything at all?"

The Latin boy was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. He and Quatre had never even had a fight before... now this? What happened to the little blonde angel? "I... I... I feel things..." Trowa's voice faded uncertainly.

"Things?" Quatre countered. The bitterness and sarcasm in the challenge were undeniable. Trowa almost winced at Quatre's tone... almost. "So, these... 'things,' are they emotions? Or are they purely physical? You sure seem to feel 'things' when you fuck me. But you obviously don't feel many 'things' when you roll over and turn your back to me afterwards. Completely shutting me out, after I've opened myself up to you physically and emotionally." A heartbroken sob escaped the dry lips.

Unable to form coherent thoughts, Trowa numbly stood, accepting Quatre's words as they were thrown at him. He could not dodge the truth, and it hurt far more than any dish.

The aqua eyes had once again filled with tears. Quatre's voice cracked as he attempted to speak, "I can't feel you."

Trowa froze, posture more upright than usual. The small boy continued between choked breaths, "I always feel Duo. I've felt Heero. I've even felt Wufei... but I've never felt anything from you and when I try... when I try..." Quatre's voice trailed off as his head dropped into his hands again.

Pain etched through the normally empty green eyes. He'd tried... he'd tried so hard. With hesitant, heavy steps, the Latin boy made his way across the room and collapsed into a chair facing Quatre.

They sat that way for some time, the silence hanging over them like a shroud. Forlorn green eyes, dulled by fatigue, stared across the table at the bowed blond head. Quatre never looked up, and when he finally spoke, his voice was hushed, but clear, "Why did we always pretend?"

Trowa absorbed the many levels of the question, unable to formulate an exact answer. Not trusting his voice, he allowed the inquiry to fade into the rhetorical.

The mass of rumpled platinum hair bobbed slightly as its owner let out a shuddering breath, "Why did we put on such a show for our friends?"

Trowa continued thinking for several minutes.

Expecting no answer to his questions, the Arab jumped lightly as the melancholy baritone swept across the room, "I think... we were trying to live out what everyone expected... what we expected... and it all became a habit."

"A twisted game of pretend," the blond added sadly.

The two weary frames resigned to the former silence as all of the facades slipped away, leaving the truth cold, bare, and vulnerable. Quatre finally lifted his head and looked across the table at a man he barely knew.

His irises were tinted a greener shade of blue, as the crying left his eyes red and swollen. Sorrow had dashed dark circles under those bloodshot eyes. His voice traveled in a hoarse whisper, as if he was afraid to speak, "It was like some depraved carnival's carousel that you've been on too long, and the spinning is making you sick. So, you want to get off, but you can't. The conductor won't ever let it stop... Why couldn't we let it stop?"

"We didn't know how."

They stared at each other as silence once again consumed the room. Not even the soft sound of breathing permeated the air. Quatre's eyes traveled over the form across from him. The lean acrobat slouched in his chair, bent over, with his forearms leaning across his legs. No trace of coldness remained in the green depths... just fatigue, and something else... was it regret?

Trowa watched the smaller man bow his head once more. Even in his disheveled state, Quatre was beautiful. He saw the faintest glimpse of the movement of the pink lips sending sounds so soft, they barely reached Trowa's ear. "I did love you."

Trowa nodded. Whether it was a nod of acceptance or a nod of acknowledgment, he himself didn't know.

"Quatre, I never meant to hurt you." Trowa suddenly found speaking clumsy and cumbersome.

The blonde smiled softly, sadly, "I know."

Trowa looked up and Quatre followed his gaze around the apartment, taking in the familiar sights and sounds that harbored so many painful memories. After sighing deeply in the general direction of a picture of the five former pilots that hung on the fridge, Trowa looked back at Quatre, "What now?"

The ivory forehead crinkled a bit in thought, before the blonde responded slowly, "I think it would be best... if you left... and I left... and we both started over."

Trowa nodded, this time in agreement.

Quatre stood, "I think we should go now."

He walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall, towards the bedroom, past items and trinkets that once held dear memories, now tainted with reality.

Pausing at an open door, blue eyes roamed the room's contents. It contained two stands. Atop one, perched a shiny violin, and the other glinted with a silver flute. The only sheet music in the room sat on a small piano in the corner, written in his own flowing handwriting.

A familiar pain scratched at his throat, as he bit back tears and quietly pulled the door closed. He continued down the hall to the bedroom, joined shortly thereafter by his noiseless companion.

The two went around the room, silently collecting clothes and other necessities; one placing these in a duffle bag, the other in leather luggage. There were no words, no expressions, and no pretensions. As he zipped his suitcase closed, Quatre didn't look up, saying, "Leave the rest. I'll have it cleared."

Trowa made no response but heaved his duffle over his shoulder. The two walked out the door and locked it without looking back.

The elevator at the end of the hall was taken to ground level. As the doors parted with an overly cheery "DING," two paths lay before them. Trowa immediately stepped out and headed away from the building.

Before the tall boy took three steps, a sensation gripped Quatre. Severe pain welled in his chest and it felt as if he was being pulled inside out with guilt and remorse, but not his own. His eyes darted to the retreating figure and his breath caught. The blond stumbled from the elevator calling, "Trowa!"

The Latin boy turned quickly, his bangs swishing slightly with the sudden movement, and looked at the other expectantly.

Quatre offered a wan smile, "I... I can feel you."

Trowa returned the gesture with a melancholy smile of his own, "Is this goodbye?"

"I don't know."

Satisfied with the shrugged response, the green eyes disappeared behind a sweep of bang as Trowa continued his exodus to the streets of the city.

Quatre watched the figure of his former lover grow smaller and smaller before turning towards his car; away from the apartment, away from the memories, away from the tears.

Quatre looked once more towards the looming building as he climbed into his BMW, the soft hum of the engine offering little solace. "Goodbye conductor, goodbye carousel," the soft sigh was caught in a gust of wind as the silver car pulled out of the lot, getting lost in the bustle of traffic.

_Part 1: Fin_

_Take a Bow  
by Madonna and Babyface_

Take a bow, the night is over  
This masquerade is getting older  
Light are low, the curtains down  
There's no one here  
There's no one here, there's no one in the crowd  
Say your lines but do you feel them  
Do you mean what you say when there's no one around no one around  
Watching you, watching me, one lonely star  
One lonely star you don't know who you are

Chorus:  
I've always been in love with you always with you  
I guess you've always known it's true you know it's true  
You took my love for granted, why oh why  
The show is over, say good-bye


	2. You'll See

For notes, warnings, and disclaimers, see part 1. Lyrics will follow.

The Other Side of the Coin  
Part 2: You'll See  
By Solanum Dulcamara

The downy comforter should have been warm and cozy. The soft pillow should have been relaxing. The bed he slept in every night should have been a comfort. But it wasn't. They weren't. This was his cage, and as Duo lay amongst the folds of cottony fabric stronger than any gundanium bars, he found that, once again, he had absolutely no desire to even get out of bed.

He ducked his head into the coverlet to avoid the strips of daylight slipping through the blinds. As the sheets brushed his face, his nose filled with the scent, the remnants of last night. Immediately, he felt his throat tighten and his stomach lurch. He flung himself onto the floor, the wood cool against his bare skin. He breathed deeply and swallowed heavily in an attempt to calm his heart and bite back the nausea. The subtle aroma still permeated the air of the room and filled his senses with every gasp. His mutinous stomach turned in on itself, wrenching pain through Duo's abdomen, which quickly seared up his chest to burn in his throat. He struggled to his knees as the familiar bitter sting of bile teased the back of his throat. Skidding frantically across the waxed wood on his hands and knees, he tried not to trip over the tangled curtain of hair that hung around him. Why did fifteen feet feel so far? With every motion, his stomach rebelled, its convulsions sending tremors through the rest of his body until the only movement of his form was the trembling. And as he sat on hands and knees, bodily shaking, the memories of last night washed over him, and the night before that, and the night before that, and every night for the past two years... and he gave up. With violent upheavals, partially digested food scorched a deviant path up through his defiant mouth to splatter down his arms and pool around his hands. Pain wrung his gut with every pulse of vomit. Thick liquid seeped from his inflamed nostrils and trickled down his chin; fetid, salty, acrid. Foul-smelling clumps oozed down the strands of his hair. His body shook violently as the last of the choking coughs racked his frame. 

"Who am I?" he thought wistfully, as bitter tears carved familiar trails down the pale cheeks, washing away small bits of vomit, "What is left of me?" The once gundam pilot bit back tears as he clawed angrily at the floor. "I can't do this anymore! I can't be this shell of who I was!"

He pushed to his feet shakily, and slowly made his way to the bathroom. "It ends today," he told his reflection, as the shower heated. He climbed in, rinsing away regret, pain, last night, the last two years, before stepping out. 

He walked out of the bathroom and dropped his towel on his puddle, "Heero hates when I leave messes."

The usually expressive face was tightened into hardened reserve, as he crossed the room to the closet. "You made me believe that I was nothing without you," he informed the room at large, "No, I made myself believe that." He dressed quickly and began methodically packing a bag. "You sure helped the process along, though. Constantly reminding me of how many times you've saved me... how often you've picked up the pieces... how I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you."

He crossed the room to his dresser, efficiently choosing only what was necessary. As he slid the drawer closed, he made the unfortunate mistake of looking at the collection of pictures scattered over the dresser's surface. Pictures of laughter and smiles and times almost forgotten. Pain welled in his chest. His heart wasn't broken exactly. It was just that he didn't remember what love felt like. Somewhere along the way both he and Heero had settled into this way of living, and he was tired and sick, and he didn't want it anymore. "I won't be a prisoner. I'm getting out." With renewed resolve, he turned towards the door, only to freeze upon hearing the click of the dead bolt.

"Duo? I came home for lunch. Where are you?" Heero's calls sent shivers up his spine: pleasure or fear... or a bit of both. He fought the urge to crawl back under the covers. His bag was packed; there was no turning back. He willed his body to move into the living room, loving and hating the sight of his lover that greeted him.

Heero frowned in confusion at seeing Duo's bag. Unable to come up with a logical explanation for its presence, he asked, "Duo, why are you carrying your duffle bag? You haven't used it since the war."

The braided man chuckled darkly at his lover's phrasing. "You partly answered your own question. I haven't packed a bag since the war. Two years, Heero."

Blue eyes looked him over curiously. Heero's voice was hesitant, "So, you packed a bag because you missed packing?"

Duo had to suppress another chuckle. Heero was being deliberately dense, and he knew it. "I packed a bag because I'm leaving."

The expression on Heero's face was of a man suddenly punched. He slowly made his way to the sofa and fell onto the leather cushions, unaware of their cold surface. After several aborted attempts, he rasped, "Leaving?"

The familiar pain welled in Duo's chest and he crossed the room to join Heero on the sofa, dropping his bag next to the trendy coffee table that he hadn't wanted, but accepted because Heero liked it. They sat in silence, misery palpable in the air, trapped for a moment in their own thoughts. Oddly mirrored postures of broken men sat side by side, staring at their laps. Duo reached within himself, past the pain, and grabbed onto the bitterness; he needed it to survive this confrontation. When he spoke, his words were carefully chosen, "I haven't traveled since the war. I don't have a job. I don't have friends. I don't go places alone. I can't even remember the last time I left this damn apartment."

Heero looked up, acknowledging Duo's statements with a nod, but finding no fault with them. A desperate sigh escaped without Duo's permission. "Don't you see? This warm home of yours is my prison; the pro-fucking-verbial 'gilded cage!'"

"Our home is safe." Obvious hurt laced Heero's words.

"That's what I'm talking about. You don't trust me to take care of myself." Duo's tone was taking on a hysterical edge. He wanted nothing more than to throw himself into Heero's comforting embrace, but knew those arms for the shackles that they were.

"I worry about you because I love you." A hint of irritation crept into Heero's voice.

"You did love me once," Duo acquiesced, "Just like I loved you." Heero once again looked blind-sided. "You loved me into submission and I loved you into my keeper. It was so nice to have someone taking care of me that I just let you. I just let it happen," with Duo's words came his pain, "I used to be a gundam pilot. Now I don't even answer our door."

Heero, apparently recovered from his shock at Duo's words, reasserted, "I do love you."

"No Heero, you possess me."

The words sunk in passed the annoyed exterior, and Heero suddenly looked deflated. His usually intense eyes sought Duo's, and they searched each other's gaze. Guilt fell on the Japanese man so heavily, speaking required effort, "I've hurt you." It was as much statement as question, so Duo didn't answer. Heero found his voice again, "Oh God! I never meant to hurt you." He pulled his lover into his arms as his voice broke.

Duo let himself be held, offering what comfort he could while resisting the siren's song of Heero's touch. He clung to the bitter lump at the core of his pain as Heero clung to him. "Lend me a little of your strength, Heero," he thought, stroking his lover's back. He let Heero be the one to pull away first, but the look on Heero's face worried him.

The Japanese man stood and began to hurriedly pace the spacious living room, socked feet silent on the plush carpet. His words when they came, were a rush of guilt, pain, and hope. "We have to do something. We can't go on like this."

"No, Heero, we can't." Duo just sat, watching Heero, not having the strength to argue.

Heero continued as if he hadn't heard, "We'll get help. Therapy or whatever."

"Heero, we..." Duo's weak protests were a whisper crushed under Heero's planning.

"We'll get past this..." Duo didn't hear anymore. He let his head fall onto the sofa back and felt the usual pull to both do exactly what Heero thought was best or run. He supposed, in a way, he _was_ running.

Finally, the stillness of the room invaded Heero's thoughts and he turned to look at Duo, a question in his gaze. Duo tried valiantly to steady his voice, to no avail. It came out shaky and uncertain. "You're doing it again. Deciding what's best for me without asking me. Keeping me in your safe little bubble."

Heero looked crestfallen, and Duo almost wanted to abort the whole thing, tell Heero it was all a mistake, and pretend like it never happened. He looked into those worried blue eyes and remembered what they looked like filled with love, and, no matter how he clung to his bitterness, the pain surged up and with the pain came the tears.

It was at that moment, watching Duo's tears in their starkly tasteful living room, that Heero realized how bad things truly were. He ached with the need to do something to fix whatever could be fixed. Hesitantly, he made his way back to the sofa. As he returned to his seat, he extended his arms in invitation. They dropped to his sides, lifeless, at Duo's small head shake. At a total loss, he could only wait, guilt crawling over him.

Tears subsided and emotions is check, Duo looked back at Heero, unsure of what to say next. Heero broke the uncomfortable silence, "What can I do..."

"You can't. It's broken, Heero, very broken." Duo looked around the living room he'd called home for two years, as he paused. He hated it. Hated the fashionable Euro-mod decor and the soulless abstract art. Grabbing onto that hate and his old bitterness, he spoke again, "We are beyond repair." He didn't wait to see the desperate look he knew he'd see in Heero's eyes, "We loved each other once... it was good once... but it's not anymore."

Heero looked, really looked at Duo for the first time. His lover's pale skin was tight over bones, cheeks hollow, eyes rimmed with dark circles. Duo reminded him of a P.O.W. ... and it all came into focus for him very quickly. He settled back against the leather with a hollowness eating at him. "How did things get like this? How did we get here?"

"I... don't know."

"Can we get back?"

"No. We can't."

Heero nodded and looked at his lap, at the pant legs of his impersonal suit for his anonymous job at a random office. "I messed up."

"Heero, you can't take all of the blame for this." Duo let himself touch Heero, putting a hand on Heero's. "It took both of us to start our relationship. So, it took both of us to screw it over. And, it's going to take both of us to... to... end it." Duo choked on the last few words. Heero's hand clasped his tightly, and Duo let go of the hate and the bitterness, drawing on the strength of that grip, the familiar pain, and the love that once was. "I have to go. I don't even know who I am anymore. I need to go out and prove to myself that I'm still a full person. And you, Heero, you deserve more than what I've been giving you. You deserve a fully functioning partner; an equal, not a shadow."

The blue eyes looked as if Heero might protest, but he didn't, instead saying, "That doesn't make it any easier."

"I know," Duo replied looking into the beautiful face of the man he alternately despised and adored, "Falling in love with you was the most wonderful thing I've ever done. Letting us become what we are was the worst mistake of my life. Leaving you is the scariest decision I've ever made. But I need to go, for both of us."

Heero nodded, the lump in his throat preventing speech. Duo stood and picked up his duffle, taking one last, long look at his lover of two years before turning to the door. 

"Duo!" The sudden exclamation caught him unawares, and he turned to Heero, breath hitching. "Remember me... as I was." He blinked back tears, seeing the shadow of the man he once loved in those blue eyes. With a nod and ghost of a smile the door shut, severing two years of obsession and dependence.

_Fin_

You'll See  
By Madonna

You think that I can't live, without your love  
You'll see  
You think I can't go on, another day  
You think I have nothing, without you by my side  
You'll see, somehow, some way

You think that I can never laugh again  
You'll see  
You think that you've destroyed my faith in love  
You think after all you've done  
I'll never find my way back home  
You'll see, somehow, someday


End file.
